


you’re frozen, you’re broken (when your heart’s not open)

by azvremoon



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: /dreamsmp rp, Abandonment, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Demigods, Dysfunctional Family, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and TommyInnit are Siblings, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-18 02:15:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29602323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azvremoon/pseuds/azvremoon
Summary: The voices that linger at the back of his head had always insisted he’d be a phoenix, reborn in fire and flame. But Tommy isn’t rage, he is perseverance, black ice whose true nature is always hidden, a clinging pest that refuses to melt.(Tommy is the son of snow and that changes everything and nothing at the same time.)
Relationships: Clara & TommyInnit, Sam | Awesamdude & TommyInnit, Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, TommyInnit & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 15
Kudos: 479





	you’re frozen, you’re broken (when your heart’s not open)

**Author's Note:**

> Ah yes, more c!Tommy apologism from AO3 user azvremoon, who would have guessed.

It’s quite a sad sight to take in when you stumble upon what remains of the Antarctic Empire.

At least, it would be in the eyes of it’s old opponents, those who had populated a server rife with conflict that never ended in permanent bloodshed. Tommy misses that, at the very least. Infinite respawns is a luxury he will never take for granted ever again.

Despite the truth of the matter - that betrayal festered in its walls on both sides, that Tommy could have rotted away beneath the floorboards without a single soul aware of his existence, that he has been banished by king and advisor, brother and father - Tommy still misses this cabin.

For it may not be grandiose, not overbearing at all, speaking nothing of Technoblade’s prowess, it was warm. Not physically, perhaps, but it let the tender feeling of _home_ sink back into Tommy’s bones when he ignored the warning signs.

He has no place in that home now, but he is still travelling towards it anyways. The holes in his sneakers rub uncomfortably against the frost beneath his feet, ice scraping at his soles. Sam had offered to repair them once. Tommy had rejected solely out of not wanting to burden the warden even further. Maybe it would have been better to take him up on the offer.

Wilbur’s trench coat hangs over his frame, far too long for Tommy’s shrivelled frame, far too big for his shrunken shoulders. The old thing, still with the stain of soot over its sleeves and the blood-stained tear down the front, does little to protect Tommy from the bite of the winter chill.

But surely nothing could protect him from the sting of witnessing his family standing in the snow. Tommy peeks from behind a tree trunk and if he believes hard enough, wills his imagination to delude him for once, he could imagine younger men in this place, watching with fond gazes as Tommy and Wilbur haphazardly made a snowman. 

He opens his eyes and watches as Techno’s hounds scurry around Ranboo’s feet, the enderman awkwardly standing there as Phil watches with that fond, fatherly gaze Tommy hasn’t witnessed since the man left for an adventure six years ago and then never came back.

Tommy wants answers. He wants to know _why._ Why is Tommy always second place to Technoblade’s ideals or Phil’s screwed sense of justice? He mourned Wilbur, just as they did. At least caring for the nation they built together was a better coping mechanism than burning it down.

But Phil and Techno will never see him as anything but a traitor to a cause he was too traumatized to ever truly believe in, and in turn Tommy will never see them as worthy of his respect, of his admiration, of the love that still sits uncomfortably in his chest for his only brother.

Tommy will never get answers. He’s already got a replacement, and he’s sure they will lie to him too. He turns on his heel and stalks back into the forest, footprints swept away by the breeze, too tired to shout for mercy till his lungs ache.

Mercy left him alone long ago. Tommy can’t find it in himself to care. He’s far too used to being abandoned.

-

It’s cold. So, so cold. The ice crunches beneath Tommy’s stumbling legs, knees shaking with the effort it takes to force his feet forward. 

He doesn’t know where he is. Tommy memorised the path from Logstedshire to the cabin, kept it always mapped perfectly in his head, for whenever escape would become a necessary action. But staring at what Phil aligns himself with and realising he is what his father left behind had killed any want to step foot in that prison again, even if it has the only portal back.

A wooden house, crafted by phantom hands. A tent, clumsily put together. Lounge chairs resting on the shore. Sand in his shoes and water in his lungs. A hole in the ground, patched over and re-made again and again. Gunpowder on his tongue and a cackling in his ears. A pillar, sky high, reaching far into the clouds.

Tommy hated that place. Dream conditioned him to think of it as home. He hated it again, blown to pieces that he could not find the energy to put back together. Now, Tommy almost misses it. At least he knew what was always coming for him, at least he knew Dream would forever show up to destroy all of his hard work. At least he had a single constant in his life for once.

He didn’t like the heat. He’s always hated it as it forces his t-shirt to stick uncomfortably to his usually bruised and battered skin. He still doesn’t find himself fond of it, not when heat means rage and anger and the brother losing his mind in the confines of a ravine.

Rage is blood-curdling, the seeds of unwanted anarchy spiralling through his bloodstream as Techno poisons him with a penchant for violence. Burning hot, scorching his skin, turning him into a mindless drone for Dream’s amusement. Drowning himself in lava had felt like a fitting punishment, to sink into the embodiment of what he hates most of all. 

Ice is just cold. It brings a strange sense of numbness, almost comforting as it forces back the memories of a pit stained in blood and fireworks exploding over his best friend’s face. He’s vaguely aware of the consequences that comes with frostbite, but he can’t bring himself to care, not as he drops to his knees and stares at his reflection in the frozen lake.

 _Sit by the fire, you idiot,_ Techno scolds him, wrapping a cloak around his skinny shoulders. _Stand there, Theseus, and watch what becomes of traitors,_ Techno yells with glee, fire raining down on what once had been Tommy’s own symphony, a legacy passed on from one brother to another. Not that Techno would have ever understood that. He had tossed away the idea of family a long time ago.

Tommy wishes he had a long time ago too. Maybe if he cared a little less, he wouldn’t be here, eyes drooping shut as he collapses into frost-tipped grass. Maybe if family wasn’t something he had put his faith into, he wouldn’t be constantly disappointed. Maybe…

There are no more maybes. There are just certainties. 

And Tommy is pretty sure he’s about to die.

-

Tommy doesn’t die. He’s not sure whether or not that bothers him. 

He’s also not sure whether or not he’s stumbling through some hypothermia-induced hallucinations. He doesn’t remember his knuckles being such a pale colour, sky blue veins nearly protruding out the skin with how dim his skin has become. His nails are tinted a concerning shade of bruise blue, soil turning the tips dark as frost spreads over the ground like a wildfire. 

Tommy scrambles over to the lake, staring at himself in the mirror of ice. The moon rises over his head, sparkling his silver-tinted curls with moonlight, illuminating the sharpness of his once soft eyes. His front is stained with blood, splattered red that travels over his sides, back twinging with an ache that speaks of torn skin and fractured bone.

Behind his back, towering over his head, are two wings, the feathers as sharp and deadly as ice, but as soft and shimmering as a falling snowflake. 

Logstedshire was all blistering heat, sand sticking uncomfortably to his skin. L’Manburg was mild, neither summer or winter, just spring and autumn incarnate. The tundra biome had felt right, even if Tommy had sunk his hands into the snow to try and stave off the feeling of Dream breathing down his neck.

Everyone else is always so attracted to heat. Explosive TNT, held in the hands of a brother. Wither skulls, held in the hands of an ally. Nukes, held in the hands of his best friends. Those sort of weapons, so destructive, the sources of all the wrong that meets him head on, have never been comforting to Tommy. He finds no solace in ruin.

The voices that linger at the back of his head had always insisted he’d be a phoenix, reborn in fire and flame. But Tommy isn’t rage, he is perseverance, black ice whose true nature is always hidden, a clinging pest that refuses to melt. 

In the end, Tommy is nothing like his family. Perhaps that is for the best.

-

 _Please come find me,_ Tommy begs to the two people left he thinks will have his back. He types his coordinates, watching in something that is equal parts horror and fascination as ice begins to crawl over the communicator screen as his fingers hover over the edge. It feels like it should read _save me_ instead, but Tommy is sick of needing to be rescued.

The adults on this server refuse to treat him as a child, and he’s become the tragic hero they want him to be, for better or for worse. _No more,_ Tommy swears. _I will not let my fate be dictated by those who should know better._

 _I am Tommy,_ he tells himself. _Not a protagonist, not a figurehead. Just plain old Tommy._

He has been Tommy since he was ten and the door to his childhood home clicked shut, the brown feather drifting to the floor the last Tommy would see for many years. He has been Tommy ever since he turned to Wilbur and pleaded, begged, for another name. _Okay, no more Theseus, then,_ William had conceded. _I’ll be Wilbur and you can be Tommy!_

Tommy is Tommy and he will never be anything else. 

-

Sam’s vibrant jacket falls over his shoulders. All it does is paint a green-coloured target on his back, barely hiding the giant wings that now protrude from Tommy’s back, but it’s comforting, the scent of smoke lingering on the fabric. Tommy had hated that kind of smell once. He’s grown fond of it, having spent hours in Sam’s protection, burrowed into the man’s warm hold

 _We’ll hide you away,_ Tubbo promises. _We’ll keep you safe,_ Sam swears. For once, Tommy has whole-hearted belief in something. Against all odds, he finds he can trust these two. Tubbo has made mistakes, but he is a child just as Tommy is and it has always been the two of them against the world. Sam tried, reached out to him even if Tommy had mistakenly rejected his offer, and that kind of generosity from a stranger is something Tommy could never overlook.

Some of the more bloodthirsty members of the server might end up yearning to have his wings as a wall decoration, but he can’t help but find a silver lining. At least they are a lot more alike now. A creeper, a ram, and now a _something._

Tommy has always been the odd one out, an anomaly since birth. A biological child beside two orphans. A hero beside Pogtopia’s traitors. A human beside hybrids. Fitting in is overrated. And even as Tommy becomes less than human, he always has to outdo himself, ending up just as he started - a freak of nature.

He can’t help but wonder if Clara, the made-up astronaut who had been his sole, imaginary companion in exile, blessed him, cursed him, with this. Tommy is grasping at straws, but he likes to think that not everything that came into fruition in exile was just another notch on his list of possible traumas. Clara gave him hope. He hopes to return the favour one day.

At least it’s a theory that will make Sam and Tubbo laugh. Or stare at him like he’s lost his mind. Either one.

-

 _Stay away from the hunters,_ Sam hisses. _They’ll never forget their roots, no matter how hard they try, and you are a one of a kind find._

 _Stay away from Jack and Niki,_ Tubbo warns. _The nuclear explosion will turn your wings to water and their plots will never end, not while your heart still beats._

 _Stay away from your former family,_ Tommy reminds himself. _All that shared blood has done is drag you further down into hell._

-

Tommy is not Theseus. If he was, he’s sure he would be a corpse by now, either by his own making or by Techno throwing him down into the endless crater that is L’Manburg’s remains.

Tommy might be Atlas, burdened by all of this server’s battles resting on his shoulder. He never starts them, but he’s always dragged into the fray, always the scapegoat, the one to cast blame and burden upon. 

Tommy could be Icarus. He could fly too close to the sun and, against better judgement, let the wings melt into rain. But he won’t. Not now. Not yet.

-

This server has had an unfortunate problem with a loss of history.

Most of the libraries that had once existed were ransacked eons ago, before the founders of the Esempi ever set foot on its soil. What little had remained of L’Manburg’s original documents were preserved for a time by Ghostbur, but lost in the destruction of every single structure that stood in the nation.

But Tommy is the Chosen One, privy to information hidden from prying eyes, and he is still the only living soul that knows of the loose floorboard found in the Church of Prime. Beneath the altar, down a spiralling staircase, is a dusty, untouched library, filled to the brim with lost scripture.

Tommy runs his fingers over the spines of book after book, dust coating his thumb as he hooks his hand around one particular directory: ℸ ̣ ⍑ᒷ ⊣𝙹↸ᓭ 𝙹⎓ 𝙹ꖎ↸. Its pages are yellowed and barely held onto the binding, but luckily it was translated by hand into English by someone who had come across this place decades before Tommy. 

God after god, page after page. The blood god, renowned for being worshipped in massacres and war. The god of chaos, known for sending their once stable apprentice into a fit of madness they could never recover from. The raven of death, known for often becoming the revered god of avian hybrids. Three gods, three of the worst men in Tommy’s life.

Tommy lands on a page. A woman is drawn messily on the side, her face blacked out with thick lines of marker. Two sets of wings behind her back, hair as white as winter frost, a deer crouching by her side. He trails his finger over the written words of the translator and freezes. Chione, the goddess of snow. 

It doesn’t quite make sense. Some still worship the gods of old, but Tommy has never been one of those people, not when he has no need to pray to the one who commands something as simple as weather. But how else did he end up like this, emotions fueling the ice that spreads from his feet and across the paths he walks upon?

Perhaps there is the possibility that Phil did some questionable things to an animal in a winter biome - because Wilbur insisted until he couldn’t anymore that Sally was a salmon and Tommy honestly started to believe him at some point - and out popped Tommy, an abomination with the body of a human and the wings of a bird coated in snow. 

That would not explain much. That would not explain why Tommy’s eyes linger on the name Chione and see the name Clara in its place instead. But it’s not as if Tommy has anyone to ask.

Or does he?

-

Sacrifices do not have to be so grand, but Tommy still feels a little silly, sitting in the woods surrounding Snowchester.

His wings scrape across the soil as they flex and tremble without his consent, a nervous habit that often has him knocking mugs off tables and breaking newly placed blocks in the hotel. _This won’t work,_ he tells himself. _So why are you even bothering to try?_ the voices in his head reply. He doesn’t have an answer to give back.

He carves out a little platform, dragging handfuls of snow off to the side till there’s a hole wide enough for the few things he could offer to a goddess who presumably already has all her heart could desire. A few snowdrops he had found still blooming in Snowchester, the emerald he had tossed into his ender chest after the dust settled, the few diamonds he had left in one of his old hut’s chests.

It’s not a lot, but it’s not as if Tommy has much left to give, just the clothes on his back and the undying loyalty to once friends who will never pay that back in earnest. _I want a brother who sees me as more than a business partner, I want a father who doesn’t replace his kids the minute he loses their blind devotion, I want Wilbur back,_ Tommy thinks. 

Tommy closes his eyes. Breathes, deeply, so his chest stops feeling like it will cave in. And then opens them once more. 

The offerings are gone. In its place is a brewing snowstorm that will coat the entirety of the server in snow so thick and enchanted that even the summer sun could not turn it to mush. Tommy’s head dips forward, suddenly so heavy on his shoulders, and his fingers reach up to brush against the base of something rooted deep into his scalp.

Velvet to the touch, but hard and inflexible as Tommy pushes and prods at the new appendages with his shaking hands. Curling up into the air, ends pointed and sharp, pricking against Tommy’s skin. Antlers. 

_Well,_ Tommy thinks. _That sure was one hell of a confirmation._

-

“You are not a god,” Tommy murmurs on his next visit to Dream, towering above the admin who only looks up at him with a sickeningly satisfied grin, leaning back against the cage of obsidian as if he has not a care in the world. 

“Says who?” Dream’s smirk is just visible, that smiling mask covering up his expression. Even in here, Sam wasn’t able to drag it off him. Tommy doesn’t mind. If exile made him good at anything, he’s good at reading exactly when Dream’s façade fades into genuine anger.

“I don’t recall the scripture ever mentioning a god going by the name Dream.” Tommy keeps his voice light, refusing to let the amusement sink in when Dream’s shoulders tense up. “But it definitely mentioned Chaos’ protégées.”

Dream does not speak. He just stares, taking in the antlers that protrude from Tommy’s head and the wings that curl protectively around his body, an uncomfortable edge to the frown growing over his lips.

“The cold will come for you soon,” Tommy murmurs, as the lava begins to drip between them, sealing Dream back into solitude. And it will.

-

There is a letter waiting on Tommy’s bed in his room at Sam’s base when he arrives, Fran curled up on the floor. He brushes his hand over her furry ears, settles down onto the sheets and begins to read.

-

_Dearest Tommy,_

_Despite my endless lifespan, it feels like I’ve waited an eternity to finally press pen to paper._

Tommy does not understand.

-

_You may not understand exactly who I am. I am Chione, but you might not be fully aware of what that means to you and that damn family of yours. But years ago, when I was travelling through server after server, bringing happy days of snow to family homes, I met a man. His name was Philza._

Oh. Tommy understands now.

-

_There is not much I can say about Philza now. He’s not important in the end. But what our union brought is of the utmost importance, because it brought me you._

Tommy freezes, placing the letter in his lap before he stares at the wall and just listens to Fran’s soft whining. _Your mother left us many years ago, Toms,_ Phil had said, a saddened smile gracing his lips. _The raven took her as one of his souls._ What a fucking liar.

-

_I wish I could have contacted you sooner, especially considering the state of affairs in that server of yours. (Tell Sam thank you for me, my son. I was waiting for an adult to grow kind.) But gods cannot communicate with those down below, even if it’s their own offspring, not until their belief comes to fruition._

_The moment you began to talk of a Clara in the stars was when that spark began. You might have not known it then, but there was a woman watching you from past the clouds, cheering you on from the sidelines, offering you comfort in the winter snow._

_Clara and Chione are one in the same and I am both of them._

“You were watching,” Tommy whispers. “You were always watching.”

Somehow, that is more than Phil ever did. The realisation makes Tommy’s heart twist. 

-

_Know this, my dear son. You might have his blonde hair and constant strive to survive, and you have my control of ice and snow, but you are your own boy. You are certainly not Philza’s child, and you are only partially mine, for you raised yourself in the midst of war._

_All that determination, that refusal to accept defeat, that spark of charm and fight in your eyes that makes you a leader and a friend - that was all created by your own hands. Never forget that, Tommy. You are worth more than they have led you to believe._

_Am I?_ Tommy thinks to himself. _Am I truly?_

 _Yes,_ Sam Nook reminds him through chirping chatter, thanking him for another job well done. _Yes, you are._

-

_Unfortunately I have not been able to twist the tides of the conflict that plagues that server of yours. That is the realm of blood and chaos, who have both laid claims on their own victors. Snow is powerful in its own right, and I have had to hold back the urges many times to simply freeze that family of yours and let them rot in the ice, but I cannot make a move against those with more raw power._

_But now we have a connection, now that you have that belief, I can send you these letters. I hope you can forgive me for my absence. I love you, my son, even if it may not seem that way just yet._

_Please, if you forget to stay clear of cliff sides, let your wings guide you home, my dear Tommy._

“Who was it from?” Tubbo asks hours later as he glares with distrust at the swollen state of Tommy’s eyes

“My family,” Tommy smiles, a small but genuine thing. “My real family.”

-

There lies a man in a crater, a father with wings and a brother with pointed ears standing above his collapsed, newly revived form.

A note falls from his clenched hand and drifts into the rubble, picked up by pointed claws.

“A deal with the god of life itself is not an easy one to make,” Phil recites the words written in an eerily familiar cursive. “But for you, my dear son, I was willing to pay the price.”

The man’s eyes blink open. He rises, groaning, one hand held over his eyes to block out the light of the sun. He takes one look at the two faces before him and grins, sharp, all of that malicious intent thrumming through him once more.

“Chione sends her regards,” he tells them.

The note falls to the floor, scrunched into a crumpled ball, Phil’s features twisted in shock. 

A brother rises over the edge of the crater, searching for the brother he calls his own.

Tommy awakens, a content feeling filling his chest, a hand brushing through his hair.

“I’m back, Toms,” Wilbur whispers.

“You’re back,” Tommy says simply. 

From above, a goddess smiles down at her son, back home once again.


End file.
